


Out of Gondor

by kestrelsan



Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-02
Updated: 2005-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-06 08:28:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/51672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kestrelsan/pseuds/kestrelsan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir and Boromir, growing up in Minas Tirith and encountering the world around them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of Gondor

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to prillalar for her suggestions and sideline support while I was working on this, and to hesychasm for lending her very keen eye while I was cleaning it up to make it post-able.

Faramir wrapped his cloak tighter around him, his feet numb inside his boots. Dawn was still hours away, and the torches set along the outer walls of Minas Tirith barely cut into the dark as he sat small and half-frozen against the wall of the city, wondering if Boromir was indeed coming back.

It had been Boromir's idea to explore the ruins, his thirteen-year-old eyes bright with enthusiasm; how brave it would be to ride alone to the city where their ancestors once lived. It was full of ghosts, Faramir pointed out. Even the most hardened soldiers of his father's guard spoke of it in hushed tones, and spat to the side to ward off the unnatural.

Boromir was keen on the idea of ghosts. And Faramir, when he thought on it further, was quite keen as well. It might be interesting to talk to a ghost. He wondered if they would sit and tell stories of when they had been alive, like the history tomes in his father's archives. He hoped, if he did indeed meet one, that his courage wouldn't fail. He wasn't sure what a ghost would look like.

The muffled fall of hooves startled him, and he jumped up from the wall as Boromir rounded the corner, an aged chestnut in tow. The horse stopped and snorted suspiciously at Faramir, but it was half-hearted, and its head and eyelids drooped as if it had been recently woken and not too pleased at that fact. Boromir made a face.

"He was all Argel would give me," he said to Faramir. Even lowered, his voice was loud in the still quiet. "And we have to be back by midday, or he'll sound the alarm."

He boosted Faramir into the saddle, and Faramir noticed a thick oblong bundle tied to the saddle's cantle before Boromir swung up behind and wrapped his arms tight around him. Faramir shivered, and his brother laughed at him. "It will be an adventure," Boromir said, as he kicked the horse in a slow rumbling trot.

It did seem very much like an adventure, Faramir thought, though he tried not to imagine his father's face if he ever heard of it. He had never been so far from Minas Tirith before. His heart felt lighter as the city's towers disappeared behind them, as if a weight he had never noticed before was lifted.

It was hard to see at first. The road was a grey blur, the trees a black canopy around them. He was glad of Boromir's warmth at his back. As they rode on, the sky lightened until he could make out the shape of each tree, and the thick forest gave way to smaller clusters of trees scattered thinly on the hillside. He saw a broad valley leading down to the river that shone icy grey and vast in the dawn, and the ground around them was frosted.

Boromir stopped the horse and pointed. "Osgiliath," he said, as if he were showing Faramir his own city. What Faramir had first taken for a giant cropping of stone bordering the river took shape as crumbling towers and domes, walls shorn jaggedly off. When he squinted, he could make out the cut of stairs that no longer led anywhere, that wrapped around the city like a maze whose lines never met. He shivered. He thought that he'd rather not meet a ghost after all.

The city was not so large as Minas Tirith, but it was ponderous and sprawling, straddling the river as if its borders could not be maintained. The horse nosed its way through a gap in the outer wall and found what had been a street at one time, still paved with stone. Hooves rang loudly in the silence. Here and there the stone glowed pink from the rising sun, and Faramir found that he was holding his breath, as if a sound from him would wake the city from its aged sleep.

The horse stopped. He could feel Boromir's breath on his neck, and puffs of frost formed in the cool air. When he turned, he saw a look in Boromir's eyes as he surveyed the city that he had never seen before.

Faramir looked around him. The stones were silent, but he thought they spoke to Boromir. If he listened hard enough, perhaps he could hear what they were saying.

"Let's climb up," Faramir said suddenly, nodding to a high wall. Boromir seemed to be in agreement, and he swung down from the horse. Faramir followed more stiffy. They tied the reins in a knot and let the horse go, though Boromir retrieved the bundle tied behind the saddle.

A set of stairs led up the wall with great chunks of stone missing from the highest steps, and they scrambled up precariously. When they reached the top, they saw that it was not a wall at all but the edge of a raised courtyard paved in stone; a few weeds and tufts of grass peeked though the cracks. Faramir wondered if it had once been a garden.

He crossed to the other side and looked down. "You can see the river," he called to Boromir. The river was like glass. There were a few bridges left that still connected the two halves of the city, though most had long since crumbled into the water.

Boromir didn't answer. Faramir turned and saw his brother kneeling in the center of the courtyard, unwrapping his mysterious bundle. Curious, he went over.

Boromir's smile was bright when he looked up. Cradled in the cloth were two swords. One was dull and notched, and Faramir recognized Boromir's training sword. The other was silver, its hilt like the evening sun, and it shone as if from its own light. Faramir knelt down and traced it wonderingly with his fingers, not daring to pick it up.

"Where did you get it?"

Boromir grinned. "Father's armory. Old Celeph has the key. I only dared to take the one."

The base of the sword was etched with an intricate, scroll-like pattern. "Is it Elvish?" Faramir asked.

"Elvish!" Boromir laughed. "There's no such thing as elves." He picked the sword up by its hilt and stood. The air whistled as he tried a few passes with it, and Faramir thought that Boromir looked very much like a warrior. Then Boromir held it out to him. "Here, you take it."

Faramir took the sword gingerly. He'd only ever before used his small hunting knife and the wooden swords the boys played with. This was entirely different; it was as if he held one of the sun's rays in his fist, though a heavy one, as he discovered when he tried to swing it. Boromir had made it seem light. His wrist ached with the effort.

"Here," Boromir said, moving behind him. "Hold it like this, see?" He grasped Faramir's hand and repositioned it on the grip. "And stand this way," he said, backing up and showing him. Faramir tried to mimic the stance, and swung the sword again. It was easier.

Boromir picked up his training sword and stood across from him, grinning.

They sparred until Faramir's arm felt thick and numb, though he knew Boromir was only swinging at half-strength. Still, it wasn't an unpleasant feeling. Each swing was less awkward than the one before, and he no longer felt as if a returning blow would knock him over. "Enough," he said finally, breathless, and handed Boromir back the sword. "Let's explore."

They put the swords away and scrambled down from the courtyard, making their way into the rest of the city. Faramir explored slowly, lingering on the narrow street that flanked the river, and Boromir was soon far ahead of him. In the gentle light of day the ruins seemed less a haven for ghosts and more real, as if the walls and towers were given solidity even in their decay. The road was set with stones that cracked and crumbled, and he came upon a graded terrace that led down to the river, sporting weeds and even a few dry flowers, as if it had once been a garden as well. He sat on a step for a while and watched the river. On the other side, the city looked majestic and sad.

He heard his name called, flat in the the still air, and he looked up to see Boromir at the top of a circular tower that was still mostly intact, rising a few feet above the rest of the walls. Boromir was leaning out a narrow window cut into the stone, grinning down at him. After a moment he disappeared, then Faramir heard his footsteps on the tiles behind him. Boromir sat down next to him.

"When I am steward," Boromir began, then stopped. A shadow passed over his eyes, and he picked up a loose rock and tossed it into the river. It left a rippling path.

Faramir drew his knees up and looked up at his brother. When Boromir was solemn, like now, Faramir thought he looked very like their mother. Not the mother he remembered, who was only a whisper of dark hair and beauty, but the painting on the wall of his father's library. His father, in a rare moment, told him once that his mother had been the inspiration for it. He wasn't sure if Denethor had meant to be kind in telling him. His father's mind was very dark.

He pointed to a low building perched almost on the edge of the river. "If I were going to rebuild the city, I would start with that."

Boromir squinted to where he was pointing. "Why that?" he asked curiously.

Faramir thought for a while, then spoke. "So I could look out the window and down the river, and wonder where it led. And keep a boat," he added, warming to the idea. "To travel down the river to the southern lands."

Boromir grinned. He pointed to a high tower that loomed above all the others, one half of which was sheared off. "I would rebuild that," he said, "so I could see all the city and look on all the lands."

Faramir smiled.

They sat on the steps for a while, until Faramir shivered and Boromir squinted up at the sun, which was nearing full height. "We should go," he said reluctantly, getting up from his perch.

As Faramir made to follow him, the edge of the step crumbled beneath his feet and his ankle twisted with a sickening snap. Pain flashed brightly as he slid down almost to the river's edge. Then Boromir was kneeling beside him, his eyes wide and alarmed. Faramir held his ankle, which felt pierced by a thousand knives, each one sharper than the last. "I think it's broken," he muttered through the pain.

Boromir screwed up his face, thinking, then stood. "Wait here."

Faramir looked up. "Where are you going?"

"There's a garrison stationed on the far side of the city. I can get some of the men to help."

"No," Faramir said quickly. "I'm fine, really." He tried to stand, and his ankle crumpled beneath him. He sat, gasping with the effort not to cry out.

"I'll be back," Boromir called to him as he ran up the stairs and disappeared around the corner of the tower.

Faramir held his ankle tightly through his boot. Stupid, he thought. Such a stupid thing to have done--he ought to have seen the cracks in the stone steps, known they would give out. He pulled himself up the terrace steps slowly, until he was at the top. The pain in his ankle was fierce. He tried to ignore it.

With Boromir gone, the city was very quiet around him. A breeze came off the river and whistled lightly through the ruined walls; that and his own breath were the only sounds. He shivered in the cold. He decided he was quite done with these ruins, its whispers of a forgotten age, its melancholy and dank greyness. Even the wind was mournful.

A scuffle of loose stones broke the silence, and he looked up to see Boromir with two men following closely behind him. They wore the uniforms of his father's soldiery.

Their faces were not unkind as they helped to lift him up. "There, now," one said to him, his voice gruff. "I dare say your father will have words for you." He saw the look on Faramir's face, and said more gently, "But you'll have a story or two to tell the other boys."

Faramir didn't answer, though he would have liked to have responded to the soldier's kindness. They carried him to the outer wall of the city, where the soldiers' horses were tethered. Boromir stood holding the reins of the chestnut, his face white.

He didn't remember much of the ride back to Minas Tirith, nor of being carried through the gates and up to his father's hall. His father must have been warned by a soldier riding ahead, for he was standing at the doors. He did not look at Faramir, and his hands were quiet at his sides. He never struck them, even when angry. He rarely touched them at all.

"This was your idea, I take it," he said to Boromir.

His brother paled. "Yes, sir," he said in a low voice. Denethor held his eyes until Boromir looked away, then he redirected his gaze to the soldier carrying Faramir.

"Take him to the healers." His eyes fell briefly on Faramir's, just a quick cold glance, before they slid away in dismissal. Faramir's chest tightened. Denethor turned and passed back through the doors of the hall, closing them behind him.

Faramir did not pay much attention to the ministrations of the healers. It was as if he were looking down from some distant point, drawn and faded in the wake of his father's presence, a ghost of himelf.

Boromir stole in to visit him late that night. Faramir still lay in the Houses of Healing, awake, his ankle tightly bound and throbbing beneath the blankets.

"Father is not so angry," Boromir said cheerfully. He sat on the edge of the bed. "He'll forget soon enough."

Faramir didn't answer. Even with the blankets, he was cold.

Boromir sat for a few minutes, shifting on the bed restlessly, then poked him roughly in the thigh. "So. When you travel down the river in your boat, what will you see?"

Faramir turned his head. His face was bitter. "I wonder sometimes if there are truly any other lands beyond these walls. If Minas Tirith is indeed the whole world and all the rest just a tale."

Boromir was silent. Then he lay down next to Faramir and wrapped his arms around him tightly. Faramir felt the warmth and solidity of his brother's arms bring him back to his own, and the memory of his father's look receded a little.

"I don't know any other lands outside of this one," Boromir said. "I do not even know for sure if they exist." He held him tight. "But I think you, at least, shall see them."


End file.
